


Spent the last three summers on the road

by obbel



Category: Latin American Celebrities RPF, Reggaetón Music RPF
Genre: AU, M/M, Magical Realism, Reggaetón RPF - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22881430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbel/pseuds/obbel
Summary: In which our intrepid hero, in hot pursuit of his love interest, says fuck the space-time continuum.
Relationships: J Balvin/Maluma
Kudos: 6





	Spent the last three summers on the road

“Come home,” Maluma had said, and Balvin, stupidly, thought that meant Maluma would be there when he arrived. Instead, Balvin gets back to Medellín at the end of November and finds that someone has broken into his house. Sitting on his dining room table is a piece of paper. When he brushes the dust off, he sees that the first third is hastily scribbled green, the last third red, and there’s a poorly-drawn eagle in the middle.

Balvin stares at it for a minute before shaking his head. He walks over to the refrigerator and sticks the paper on the door with a magnet, which reminds him. Cautiously, he peeks inside, relieved that he hasn’t left any food to spoil. Last time he was away, he’d left a liter of milk by accident, and the smell was so terrible he threw the whole fridge away and bought a new one.

Balvin goes back to his security system. He sits with Enzo and tries to find the footage. It takes them a while, sifting through a couple years’ worth of recordings, but eventually Balvin finds what he’s looking for. He rewinds the video, watches as Maluma waltzes through his front door and makes himself comfortable at the table. He has the hood of his jacket pulled down as low as it will go over his eyes, but his long blonde hair still sticks out around the edges. The hood almost slips off when he fishes around in his pockets. Balvin watches him pull out a piece of paper and some markers. He spends longer drawing the flag than he did breaking in. On his way out, he flashes the camera a shit-eating grin.

“Aren’t you supposed to prevent things like that?” Balvin asks Enzo. “I didn’t hear any barking.”

Enzo snuffles and rests his head on Balvin’s leg. Balvin pets his ears.

“Mexico it is, I guess.”

Enzo sighs.

“Don’t worry. Carolina will come take care of you.”

Enzo’s tail wags against the floor.

—

He doesn’t go right away. They’ve been at this long enough that he’s pretty sure Maluma won’t be in Mexico for at least another week, maybe a year. He walks to Paraguay instead, then turns around and walks right back home and spends a while messing with things in his house: rekeying locks, repositioning cameras, trying to teach Enzo to bite intruders. Enzo rolls over, exposing his belly and begging for pets. Balvin obliges. Enzo is very soft.

He goes to Monterrey on the seventh, figuring that that’s enough waiting. He’s wrong, of course. Maluma isn’t there. Balvin rolls his eyes and goes for a run. He ends up in Guadalajara.

He would stay, but he doesn’t. He goes to Puerto Rico and meets up with friends, some old and some new. He thought he was there for about a month, but he watches the news the next day, and the newscaster says it’s December tenth.

It’s snowing in New York. Balvin opens the apartment window, and the cold smacks him in the face, nature and the universe reminding him who’s boss. He laughs at fate, sound carried far and wide in the frigid air, and tries to catch a snowflake on his tongue.

On his way out, he is stopped by the front desk and handed a letter. It’s postmarked for same day delivery, and the return address is in Mexico City. He tears open the envelope, and inside is a single sheet of paper.

 _Dónde estás?????_ is printed across the top in familiar handwriting. Balvin wonders if the five question marks were really necessary, but he draws a seashell on the same paper and then walks over to the post office to send his reply.

He gets lost on his way back. He wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking, and when he looks up, he’s in Brooklyn. He resists the urge to climb the street sign and make the U into an O. Balvin walks along Columbia Heights until he gets tired of brownstones and crosses over to the Promenade.

There aren’t too many other people out in the snow. Balvin leans against the guardrail and stares at Manhattan across the water, daydreaming about moving to New York. It would probably be easier here. There are so many people, and they’re all like him, always moving, always on the go. 

He can’t leave home, though. Not forever. He tried once, when he was a teenager, and as soon as he made up his mind to stay, he got sick. His ears didn’t stop ringing until he walked into his parents’ house and passed out on the floor.

Balvin goes back to the apartment and steps in a giant puddle as soon as he opens the door. He left the window open.

“Fuck,” he says, and goes to get a mop.

His floor is totally ruined; two and a half weeks of standing water will do that. But at least it didn’t reach his downstairs neighbors. Balvin makes arrangements for someone to fix it, and then he decides it’s time to head to the beach.

—

Cartagena is a challenge. Balvin arrives on the thirtieth, but he can’t manage to stay. He goes back home and wakes up the next morning in his own bed. Enzo is licking his face. 

“Go fetch the remote, Enzo.”

Enzo keeps giving him kisses.

“Fetch, Enzo!”

Enzo sits down. Balvin sighs, hauling himself out of bed. He and Enzo walk downstairs, and Balvin turns on the tv in his living room. They’re a week into the new year. 

“How did this happen, hmm?”

Enzo lies down on the floor. Balvin rubs his belly.

He calls Carolina later, asking if she and Samantha want to go to the beach. For some reason, it’s easier with family. Carolina drives, and Balvin marvels at how she has the patience to sit in one place and concentrate for so long on getting them to their destination. He and Samantha take turns badgering her about how much longer it’s going to take until she threatens to leave both of them on the side of the road and enjoy some peace and quiet. Enzo barks his agreement.

They arrive, finally, and they head straight for the beach. Samantha tumbles out of the car, not waiting for anything or anyone. Enzo is right behind her, and they race to the ocean, running around, kicking up sand. They take turns chasing each other right up to the edge of the water, neither daring to get in just yet.

Balvin and Carolina unpack a couple towels, and they sit watching the show. The air is salty, heavy, and Balvin breathes deeply.

 _“Cómo estás, Josecito?”_ Carolina asks, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Fine,” he answers. “I’m fine.”

“How’s Juan?”

“Around, maybe.”

Carolina cuts her eyes at him, but she doesn’t comment. Balvin puts an arm around her shoulder and squeezes. She turns and kisses the side of his head. They watch Samantha and Enzo splashing each other in the surf, all earlier trepidation forgotten.

“Sorry,” Balvin says as Enzo shakes, water and sand sprayed everywhere. Samantha shrieks, laughing, then dives back under the water. “We’ll walk home.”

“Can he do that?” Carolina asks, glancing at Balvin. He shrugs.

“I meant the beach house. Not home home. But I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“Hmm,” Carolina says, and she stands up, calling for Samantha to come out of the water because it’s getting late. Balvin glances at his watch, but, as usual, the hands are stuck on midnight. Except for the second hand, which ticks spastically back and forth, trapped behind the glass face.

Carolina notices him. “I can’t believe you still wear a watch.”

Balvin shrugs. He’s not sure why either, but he’s gotten used to the weight on his wrist.

“Come on, Samy,” Carolina yells again. “The sun is setting!”

Samantha protests, says she’s not tired and doesn’t want to leave, but Carolina coaxes her out of the water and wraps her up in the towel. When Balvin and Enzo arrive at the beach house, she’s napping on the sofa, hair sticking out in all directions from the salt water.

“I found something,” Carolina says, appearing at Balvin’s side. Balvin turns to look at her. She brings him over to the back door. Through the glass, he sees the seashells on the porch. They’re arranged into four small hearts. Balvin is four days late.

“It’s cute,” Carolina says. “Better than last time.” She elbows him in the side before leaving to start dinner.

Balvin stays almost a week at the beach. He’s taken by surprise when Carolina tells him that she and Samantha are going home, but he gives his blessing. He doesn’t go with them. Carolina offers to take Enzo back with her, and Balvin thanks her.

—

Balvin drifts for a while, untethered. Cities and days blend together until he forgets where he was or where he’s going. He stops when he sees the view from the balcony. The architecture of the first arrondissement is always striking, even when it’s gray. 

Paris in the winter is cold and wet and beautiful and dirty. The freezing rain comes down sharp, and Balvin hunches his shoulders as he walks, thinking he should buy an umbrella. He doesn’t, though, and suddenly it’s sunny. He looks at the daily newspaper, and even if he still can’t read French, _19 juin_ is easy enough to guess. 

He is invited to a party. It’s full of thin people in European designs, and they parade past him in quick succession, a never ending line of peacocks fanning their tails, each one preening more outrageously than the last. It’s colorful. It’s loud.

Suddenly, in the midst of the living art show is a familiar face. The only face, really. With a rose in his mouth.

Balvin almost doesn’t believe it. Of all the surreal things surrounding him, this is the strangest. But Maluma is in his arms, briefly, and he smells like home. 

“You should have been here in April,” he says.

“Maybe I was.”

Maluma grins. “Bad timing.”

“Always.”

Balvin studies Maluma. His hair is cut short now, and he’s no longer blonde. But his smile is the same, coming quickly and easily, expansive and infectious. Balvin feels the corners of his mouth twitch, pulling his lips involuntarily until he’s mirroring Maluma, and for a moment, they’re just standing and staring, beaming at each other, two madmen in the middle of the madness.

Maluma breaks the spell, though, slipping out of Balvin’s embrace so suddenly that Balvin doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he’s almost disappeared. Balvin grabs for him, but he’s too fast, and Balvin’s hands are full of nothing but the space he left behind.

“Wait!” Balvin yells. Maluma turns back, blows him a kiss.

“Miami!” he yells in return, and then he’s gone, swept away by the partygoers. Balvin stares after him, picking up the rose Maluma dropped. He clutches it in his hand. If it has thorns, he doesn’t feel them.

Maluma sends him postcards the rest of the summer. From Lisbon, from Prague, from Rabat, from Kiev, and then in August, he gets a polaroid from home: Maluma kissing Enzo while Enzo licks his face. Balvin feels vaguely jealous before he thinks about how absurd that is. He stares at the picture, trying not to smudge it with his sweaty fingers.

Balvin sighs. He doesn’t usually keep track of time, but the stifling air of southern Florida has him tallying marks on the wall like a colonial prisoner, counting the hours that pass, or the minutes, or the seconds. Even in December, he’s hot and miserable, and he came as late as he thought he could get away with.

He hasn’t found Maluma, but he thinks he’s getting close. There’s another party today, another excuse to play dress up and tea party — and house, if he’s lucky.

Balvin arrives early and alone. This party is not quite like Paris, but it’s in the same vein, loud, colorful, expensive. Everyone has come out to impress. Balvin watches the parade of the strangely dressed and beautiful, but this time no face jumps out at him. Maluma is not here. 

Balvin circles the perimeter, pacing, feeling like a tiger at the zoo. The enclosure is too small, the visitors tap on his glass too often, and the zookeeper hasn’t come around in a while. He’s restless, anxious. He sticks it out as long as he can before making his escape.

Before he leaves, though, he does some light vandalism, writing all over the walls with a stolen marker. The venue is covered in wallpaper spelling out the host’s name, and Balvin reverses the first and last letters. “rioD” would have his primary school spelling teacher rolling in her grave, but it’s good enough to get the message across. Finished with his graffiti, he ducks out the back door.

He arrives at home and strips out of his outfit, molting his party feathers. He takes Enzo for a ten day walk, and when they come back, he decides to head south for a while, first to Chile and then to Argentina.

—

Balvin gets a letter on the eighteenth of December. The postmark says Riyadh, but it’s hand delivered, slid under the door of his hotel room, _in Riyadh._

Balvin throws the door open and looks around, but the hallway is empty. He shakes his head as he tears open the envelope.

 _Llegaste tarde,_ the letter says, followed by a frowny face.

“Time is a social construct,” Balvin grumbles to no one in particular before disappearing back into his room.

He stays until Carolina calls him home for Christmas.

“We miss you,” she says. “Come see your family.”

Balvin obliges. 

There’s nowhere like Medellín during the holidays. The city is an explosion of tiny lights, competing with the stars to make the most constellations. Balvin, having left Carolina and Samantha talking to one of the many Papá Noels wandering around, walks by the river with Enzo, admiring the handiwork. Enzo seems partial to the school of neon fish floating in the water. He barks at them, dropping down to a play bow as his tail wags and making the occasional hesitant jab with his front paws. 

“No fishing, Enzo,” Balvin says just as Carolina and Samantha catch up to them.

“Let him fish!” Samantha says.

Balvin pauses to consider the idea for a minute before scooping Samantha up and pretending to toss her in the river. “You’re the only one going fishing,” he says over her giggles.

Carolina indulges them for a minute before taking her daughter back. “Okay,” she says. “No one is going fishing.”

Samantha sighs dramatically, and Carolina tries to hide her amusement, but she ends up smiling at her affectionately. They leave a while later, Balvin carrying Samantha on his shoulders back to the car. He loads Samantha into the backseat next to Enzo, and Carolina stops him before he gets into the passenger’s side.

“Papá Noel asked me to give this to you,” she says, giving him a pointed look. She hands him a triangular piece of paper, folded over several times. Balvin takes it and unfolds it carefully. He holds the snowflake up for Carolina to see.

“That’s original,” she says. Balvin laughs.

On the way home, Balvin plays with the snowflake, turning it over in his hands, examining the intricacy of the cuts made to the paper. It’s more sophisticated than the arts and crafts Balvin remembers doing as a child. The paper shines, smooth and metallic between his fingers, capturing colors from the Christmas lights even through the car windows.

Carolina glances over at him. “When are you going to see him?” she asks. Her voice is almost neutral, but Balvin knows when she has an opinion she’d like to share.

“When I catch him.”

“What is this, José?” she asks, rolling her eyes. “The world’s longest game of chase?”

“I don’t know,” Balvin says honestly.

“Why keep doing it, then?”

“Because he’s the only one who understands.”

Carolina scoffs, but she doesn’t argue. “I just want you to be happy,” she says finally.

Balvin smiles at her. “I know, Caro.”

She leans over, grabbing his hand and squeezing. They stay like that until Carolina pulls into Balvin’s driveway. He lets Enzo out of the backseat first, then gives Samantha a kiss on the head. Her eyes are closed, but she smiles sleepily when he tells her he loves her. Before they go, Balvin stops in front of Carolina’s window. She lowers it.

“Merry Christmas,” he says. “I love you.”

She leans out the window, hugging him tightly. “I love you, too,” she says. “Be careful.”

Balvin nods, and then he and Enzo walk towards the house. Enzo sits with him as they watch Carolina’s car pull away, Balvin waving until he can’t see the headlights anymore.

—

Balvin is unprepared for Iceland in every possible way.

He knew, abstractly, that it was going to be cold, but recognizing the concept of cold is wildly different from feeling it eating away at the tips of his ears and nose and fingers. He exhales, and he could swear that he sees his breath crystallizes right before his eyes.

Balvin breathes a couple more times on his hands, but it’s more for comfort than actual warmth. Even through his gloves, they feel frozen solid. He adjusts his hat, then rubs his hands half-heartedly over his ears, wishing that he hadn’t shaved his hair before coming here. He’s never experienced his _scalp_ being this cold before.

Balvin looks at his surroundings. It’s worth the potential for frostbite. He knew it was going to be beautiful, too, but the vast, white expanse of frozen ground humbles him, as do the mountains looming in the distance.

Nothing like nature to remind you that you are small, he thinks.

He spends the morning exploring, skimming over the tundra in a four wheeler until it gets stuck, and he’s forced to give up and go home, lest he meet his untimely end out in the elements. Fortunately, the four wheeler died closer rather than farther from civilization, and the walk back to the hotel doesn’t take very long. He apologizes to the owner of the rental place, explaining what happened. The owner waves him off, saying that it happens, and that it’s nothing to worry about. The staff will go get it out in no time. Balvin apologizes again and heads back to the hotel.

Waiting in his room is the last thing in the world he was expecting.

“Hi,” Maluma says, casually, as if he hadn’t been playing hard to get for the better part of two years.

“Hello,” Balvin says, standing in the doorway, not daring to move quite yet.

“What took so long?”

Balvin doesn’t have an answer for that. He stares at Maluma incredulously. His hair is very blonde, and a thick beard covers the bottom half of his face. Finally, Balvin says, in a measured voice, “The four wheeler got stuck.”

“Bummer,” Maluma says. “You should have gotten a snowmobile. That’s what I did.”

“Yeah,” Balvin says, still unsure if this is really happening, or if this is a hypothermia-induced hallucination. He starts to take his snow boots off, slowly, so as not to fall over and knock himself awake. Maluma watches him intently.

Shoes off, Balvin walks over and sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. Maluma grins, and Balvin can’t help but smile back.

“Hi,” Maluma says again, sitting down next to him.

“Hi,” Balvin says. 

“You found me.”

“You made it easy this time.”

“Well,” Maluma says, and his expression falters, “I didn’t want you to give up, you know, call it quits. Stop following me.” He glances cautiously, almost anxiously at Balvin.

“Never,” Balvin says, and Maluma’s smile comes back in full force.

“Good.” Maluma leans over to kiss Balvin, still smiling as he does it.

It feels like no time at all has passed. Maluma kisses exactly the same as Balvin remembers, smells exactly the same. Balvin puts a hand on Maluma’s side, and Maluma makes a familiar sound.

Maluma grabs his hand and, still kissing him, brings it underneath his sweater. Balvin feels his skin, smooth and hot. He runs his fingers over Maluma’s waist, over his stomach and up to his chest. He traces Maluma’s collarbones, then reaches his shoulders and starts pushing at the knitted material of his sweater. Maluma smirks.

“You miss me?”

Balvin doesn’t respond, just pulls the sweater up, letting it catch around his neck so as to cover his mouth and shut him up for a minute. 

Shirtless, Maluma looks just like Balvin remembers him, all tattoos and muscles, although not as many as Balvin has, he’s pleased to note.

“You look good,” Balvin says.

In response, Maluma climbs into his lap, pushing the heavy winter jacket off his shoulders. Balvin helps him, pulling the layers of insulation off as well. Maluma puts a hand on his chest, feels how sweaty his skin is from the snow gear he left on too long.

“I get you that hot, huh?” he asks, half joking. Or maybe full joking, but Balvin doesn’t ask for clarification. He undoes the button of Maluma’s pants, pulls the zipper, and shoves them down over his thighs, muttering angrily when they get stuck.

“Relax,” Maluma says, laughing. “You in a hurry or something?”

“You talk too much,” Balvin says.

“Give me something else to do with my mouth, then.”

And Balvin does.

—

Afterwards, showered and bundled up in their snow gear — Maluma noticeably less so than Balvin — they head back outside. Maluma rents a two-person snowmobile, and gestures for Balvin to get in the back seat.

“Why do you get to drive?” Balvin asks.

“Because you don’t know where we’re going,” Maluma replies, shaking his head.

Maybe he has a point, but Balvin refuses to concede it. “Hmm,” he complains.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired of following,” Maluma says.

“I’m tired of you breaking into my house.”

Maluma responds with a snowball to the head, which quickly escalates into a snow fight that delays their departure time by twenty minutes or so, but only because Maluma fights dirty, using such tactics as fake reconciliation kisses that are really just a cover to shove snow down the back of Balvin’s jacket. Balvin retaliates by tackling Maluma into the snowbank and not letting him up until he receives real kisses, no unpleasant surprises attached.

Brushing the snow off each other, they settle into the snowmobile and head to Maluma’s mystery destination.

It’s a waterfall, which Balvin would find cheesy if not for how absolutely breathtaking it is. The sky is perfectly blue, brought out by the white and gray surrounding them. The sun shines bright, and Balvin tilts his face up to meet it. He imagines the warmth radiating through his whole body.

Balvin can feel Maluma’s eyes on him, and when he glances over, Maluma is smiling a quiet, subdued smile. He walks over, wordlessly, and hugs Balvin, almost too tightly. Balvin turns his head, pressing as close as he possibly can to Maluma’s chest. He thinks he can feel Maluma’s heartbeat, even through all the layers of clothing. He’s not sure how long they stay like that.

Maluma lets go eventually, saying, “Come on.” He guides Balvin around the pool at the waterfall’s base, telling him to be careful as they make their way over the rocks. When they reach smoother ground, he grabs Balvin’s hand. It’s clumsy and awkward through their gloves, so Balvin tosses his aside. Maluma laughs at him before doing the same.

They come to a stop eventually, sitting on a rock far enough from the roar of the water crashing down to hear each other speak.

“It’s nice here,” Balvin says, stating the obvious. But Maluma doesn’t have anything smart to say in response. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.” He scoots closer, leaning his shoulder against Balvin’s, and Balvin leans into him, too.

“How long have you been here?”

“A day longer than you,” Maluma says.

Balvin laughs. “You sure about that?”

“I’m serious,” Maluma says, turning to look at him. “Look.” He pushes his sleeve up to show Balvin the ticking hands of his watch, and Balvin immediately looks at his own. It’s four forty three. The second hand goes tick, tick, tick around the circle, and then it’s four forty four.

Balvin stares in disbelief. Then he glances up at Maluma grinning at him.

“When’s the last time it worked?” Balvin asks him.

Maluma considers. He’s making his thinking face, and Balvin has to fight the urge to lean over and kiss him. “Probably when I was a teenager,” Maluma says eventually. “Before I left home.”

“Wow,” Balvin says. “That was a long time ago.”

Maluma pushes him, grinning. “Shut up, _viejo._ You were a teenager in the nineties.”

Balvin pushes him back. “I’m not old,” he says, conveniently ignoring the fact that Maluma is right.

Maluma pushes him again, and they go back and forth a couple times before ending the play fight. Maluma leans into Balvin again, and Balvin opens up, letting Maluma rest against his chest.

“It’s nice here,” Balvin says again. He wraps his arms around Maluma, hugging him in.

“Yeah,” Maluma agrees. “Let’s stay for a while. We can get old together. Or _older,_ in your case.“

Balvin just laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> [Itzel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecelery) and I cry about many things in regards to this pairing, but one of the most frustrating is the fact that they're often in the same place _at the same time,_ and yet they don't see each other. This is a fix-it for my sanity's sake.
> 
> The amount of detail that went into each setting is directly correlated with how much Instagram research I felt like doing. That being said, the timeline is pretty much accurate if you cross-reference social media with the dates mentioned.
> 
> Many thanks to [RJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjtondale) and [Maria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yehwellwhatever) for the beta. Title from "Loyal" by PARTYNEXTDOOR featuring Drake and Bad Bunny.


End file.
